


Two Sovereign Masters

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [9]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Dark!Charlie, F/M, This one wasn't my fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war is won and the militia defeated, Charlie needs Monroe's expertise in hunting rebels. But why would he help the woman who helped dethrone him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The explosion had reduced the street to smouldering rubble, strewn with puddles of melted glass, splintered wood and the charred remnants of furniture. Blood stained the pock-marked pavement and black, greasy smelly smoke hung in the air. The injured had been evacuated, but the dead were still here.

'God,' Charlie whispered, stopping in her tracks. A foot lay in the middle of the street, charred at the severed edge but otherwise clean and perfect. It was too small to belong to an adult. 'How did the militia get a bomb into the city?'

Nora ran a grubby, scraped hand through her hair, hang-nails catching on the knots. She looked sick. Not that Charlie blamed her. 

'It wasn't the militia,' Nora said.

'An accident?' Somehow that seemed worse. Things like this shouldn't just ...happen.

Nora gave her head a small, grim shake and looked away, cheek moving as she chewed on the inside of it. There was grey at her temples, Charlie noticed with a jab of surprise. It had been three bad years, but it was hard to remember that. Sometimes it felt like weeks, like Dad's grave would still be raw dirt when she went back.

'The rebels have claimed responsibility,' Nora said.

'What?' Charlie said. 'We're the rebels.'

'We were the rebels,' Nora corrected her, turning back. She reached out and adjusted the lapel on Charlie's neat, buff jacket, showing off the insignia. 'Now we're the government, and some factions aren't all that pleased with that. Miles...'

She trailed off with a shrug. Even after he'd defeated the militia, won against all the odds, people still hated Miles. All they could see was the brutal General Matheson, a coup instead of an popular upraising. Charlie rubbed her hand over her face.

'We've said we'll have an election once the border with Georgia is pacified,' she said. 'But we can't stop in the middle of a war, by the time we had a new government Georgia would be prime position to overthrow it.'

Nora twitched her shoulders. 'They think it's an excuse. That once the Georgian border is back under control, it'll be incursions from the Plains Nation.'

'So they do this?' Charlie said, waving her hand at the devastation. Her voice cracked, half-smoke and half-anger. 'They killed people. My people.'

'We just need to talk to them,' Nora said. 'If we make some concessions, give them more...'

'After this?' Charlie asked, waving her hand at the devastation. 'They killed civilians.'

'They're rebels,' Nora said. 'We're on the same side.'

'No,' Charlie said flatly. 'Not if they're doing this.'

She turned and strode away, her ever-present guards peeling off the walls and falling in behind her. The customary jab of 'I can take care of myself' was barely there under her fury and grief. She hadn't wanted to be left here while Miles rode off to war, but she was responsible for the people here. Now she'd let them down.

'Charlie.' Nora called after her. 'If we aren't rebels, what are we?'

****

The question was still nagging in the back of Charlie's mind later when she went to check on Monroe. His continued health was another reason the dissident rebels claimed that Miles couldn't be trusted. It didn't matter how many times they said he was a hostage against the continued good behaviour of the Republic loyalists, people believed that Miles just couldn't pull the trigger.

It didn't help that they were right.

But after everything Miles had done for Charlie, she could keep his old friend alive and well. Not necessarily happy, of course, but still better than he treated her family. She'd put him in the rooms where he had kept her mum prisoner, let him have a little taste of his own medicine.

The guards stayed outside.

Monroe was sprawled out on one of the heavy, antique couches, flipping desultorily through a book of poetry. He dropped the book onto his chest, finger marking his place, and gave her a look of guarded interest.

'So what happened?' he asked.

Charlie narrowed her eyes, wondering if maybe Nora had missed a layer of machination. A smile twitched over Monroe's face and he rolled gracefully to his feet, tossing the book onto the sofa. He pointed to the window.

'I saw the smoke through the window.'

'There was a fire,' Charlie said dryly, loosening the fastening on her jacket. She walked over to the desk and glanced through his writing. Last time he'd said he was going to write his memoirs. There were a few pages of that, a sketch of battle plan suggestions and a two abortive letters to Miles. She read them both, squinting over references she didn't recognise. Pre-Blackout or code?

'I don't mention you,' he said, sliding her jacket down her shoulders. His breath was hot on her neck, body crowding her. 'The explosion rocked the windows. What was it.'

Charlie tilted her head, fingers going still on the papers. 'I didn't say you could touch me.'

He shifted and braced his arms on the table, folding himself around her. 'Charlotte, you wouldn't be here if you didn't want something.'

She turned around and leant back against the desk, looking up at him. His eyes were pale as ice and intent, his tan faded to leave him paler than her. 

'Kneel,' she ordered, throat scratching. 

His eyes didn't leave her face as bent first one knee and then the other. Charlie tugged her belt loose and, on a whim, looped it around his neck. His eyes went empty and his throat worked as he swallowed, tongue flicking over his lips. That worked, she made a note. The black leather looked stark against his pale skin.

'Maybe what I want, doesn't need you to talk,' she said, unbuttoning her trousers and letting them slide down her hips. 'In fact, better if you don't.'

She tightened her grip on the leather, wrapping it around her fist, and tugged him closer. His shoulders nudged her thighs and she shifted, leaning back and spreading her knees. He buried his face between her legs, soft lips and clever tongue dipping and sucking and licking at her. His stubble scraped at her thighs, an irritation that had become part of the ritual. Charlie bit her lip and let her head drop back, breath catching hot in her throat as pleasure pulled tight in the pit of her stomach.

His teeth scraped her clit, pleasure-pain needling through tender flesh and making her curl her toes in her boots, and then he flicked it with his tongue. Charlie tangled her free hand in his hair, wrapping his curls around her fingers, and bit her lip hard to hold in the whimpers that wanted to escape.

She wasn't a virgin, but neither Jason (back when he was Nate) or the rebel she'd hooked up with (before he decided she needed protecting and she got Miles to glare at him) had been all that good at this. Most of the time it was a fumble behind a tree with their clothes on, or a lick and promise before the main event. Of course, she hadn't had them on a leash – metaphorical or literal.

Monroe's tongue pressed into her, slick and wet and firm. She couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her and felt his lips move in a smirk against her sex. Everything felt over-sensitised, her uniform almost unbearably rough against her skin. 

'Where are the rebel bases in the city?' she asked.

'Now?' he asked, voice muffled and the tickle of his breath sending her a shudder of hot pleasure into her core. She shifted and put her knee against his shoulder, pushing him back. Monroe sat back on his heels, mouth and chin slick with her juices. He wiped his sleeve over his face and she could see the shift in his brain as he focused on something other than her body. 'You'd think you'd know that better than me.'

Charlie gave the belt a tug, leather digging into his skin. 'I didn't ask for commentary. Just information.'

He licked his lips. Charlie tried not to let it show how that twisted everything tighter inside her, making her breath hot in her throat. This was the game – or maybe she should call it the justification. Monroe was bored and she was his only entertainment; she needed advice and he was, in his way, unbiased.

'So, they've turned on you,' he said. 'You knew this was bound to happen, right?'

'They're a small, rogue group,' she said.

'It's what happens, Charlotte,' he said. 'First they want you to save them, then you start asking for taxes or tell to stop buggering the goats and all of a sudden you're evil. It's the price of power.'

'Is that going to be the first chapter of your memoir?'  
He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. Charlie scowled and thought about tightening the belt again.

'Stand up,' she said instead. He looked curious, but did as she was told. It made him taller than her, but she still had the leash. She pulled him down so his mouth was next to her ear and took his hand, guiding it between her legs. 'Where did you think the rebels were in the city?

She twisted her fingers through his and guided him to where she wanted him to touch. His breath caught and faltered against her ears as she used his hand to pleasure herself. He leant in, pushing the hard bulge of his erection against her thigh. She let him, for now.

Breath ragged, in time with the guided thrust of his fingers, he gave her the names and addresses that – he pointed out – used to be current. Focusing on remembering them distracted Charlie from the building warmth in her stomach for a while, but she knew just where to touch and Monroe had clever fingers.

She came with a shudder, muffling any noises she might have made in Monroe's shoulder. 

'You need to wipe them out,' he told her, nuzzling her ear through her hair. 'If you don't they'll think you're weak and if you can't protect the people, they won't put up with you. They might have hated me, but I kept them safe. But it has to with the tools of atrocity in hand, Charlotte. You need to stop murderers, not make martyrs.'

'I'm not you,' Charlie said, pushing him away. She tugged her trousers back up, cringing as the fabric scraped sensitive skin, and tucked her shirt back in. 'I won't be you.'

He backed up a step, erection thick and ready through his thin trousers, and spread his hands placatingly. The body language didn't match his mocking voice. 'Of course not, you're your own woman, General Matheson.'

She gave him a dismissive look and turned to go, wiping her hands and tidying her hair.

'Do you think this degrades me?' Monroe asked, amused. 'Do you think that as long as I don't come in you, that it doesn't count?'

Charlie paused without turning around. 'Do you think I give you a thought once I'm gone?' she asked. 'Do you think I don't have a fit, young lover to finish what you start?'

She glanced over at him. His face had gone tight and furious, eyes burning. It was a lie. She couldn't trust anyone else to come to her bed and not boast about it or try to get advantage. Monroe didn't talk to anyone and his only advantage was staying in her good graces.


	2. Under the Governance

Mrs Tunney paused in counting out the chits for her tab and sniffed the air. 'Are you baking banana bread, dear?'

'Dried banana bread,' Aster said, handing over a paper bag full of buns. 'Hope your family enjoys that, ma'am.'

Tunney took the back absently, twisting an age-spotted hand in the paper. 'I'm sure they will. Put me down for a loaf of that banana bread when it's done, would you? Haven't had any in an age.'

Aster smiled politely. 'Of course.'

With one last long sniff, Mrs Tunney and her buns let herself out of shop. Aster leant against the counter and waited. When no-one inconvenient appeared, she nipped over and locked the door before letting herself into the back room. Bowls of proving dough sat on the shelves, filling the narrow store with the smell of yeast, sourdough...and banana. Aster kicked the fringed rug back, revealing a small trap door.

She rapped it four times in quick succession, waited for a count of 8 and then knocked again. Ritual observed, she tugged the trapdoor up and swung her legs into the gap. Cold air nipped at her bare ankles as she clambered down the rough ladder, dropping the trapdoor behind her.

Graham met her at the bottom with a scowl. 'What are you doing?' he asked, wiping raw hands on a cloth. 'You're meant to be minding the shop.'

She pushed her hair back behind her ears. 'It stinks up there,' she said. 'People are starting to wondering what's going on.'

He shrugged. 'Lie to them. It won't be much longer.'

Old doubts nipped at Aster, but she ignored them. It was too late to go back now. She looked around the chipped out cellar they'd built during Monroe's reign. After the Rebels rode into the city, under the flag of the USA, she'd thought she'd get to use it for storage and tales.

Instead, three other people hunched over a work-table, pouring acid and gelatine unto trays of oats. Already rolled and tapes of the home-made dynamite were packed up at the far side the room.

It gave her a marshy feeling in her stomach to think of them down here while she was baking away above. In the end, it would be worth it. 

'This will make them listen,' she said, not letting it be a question. It would; it had to.

Graham answered her anyhow, squeezing her shoulder with a hot, soft hand. 'This will make the whole damn Republic listen, Aster. Now get back upstairs. We should be done by tonight.

 

**********

Charlie exercised her willpower and avoided any visits to Monroe's suite. She filled her days with reports, plans and Nora-placating attempts to 'talk' with the various rebel factions. Her nights were spent worrying sleeplessly about the things she'd done during the day.

It used to seem so simple – horrible, but simple. The militia was the bad guys, overthrow Monroe and the world would be set to rights. Only it wasn't – Monroe still had his loyalists, the dissidents thought she was the same as Monroe and groups who thought they could set up their own militias now. 

And the more Charlie tried to solve one set of problems, the worse she seemed to make the whole. 

She lasted a week.

'I missed you,' Monroe murmured against her breast, words cold against spit-wet skin. He was sitting behind the desk, chair pushed back into the wall to give Charlie room to straddle his thighs.

'You missed being in the loop,' she corrected him, breath hot in her throat as circled her nipple with his tongue. 'Missed trying to play me.'

She felt rather than saw his smile. 'Can't it be both?'

'No.'

He bit her nipple gently, making her jerk at the same prickle of pain-pleasure-heat shimmered along her nerves, and tugged. The tip of his tongue scraped over the tender flesh. She ran her fingers through his hair, sliding down to cup the back of his neck. He teased her nipple to a tight, aching nub, before lifting his head.

'So what do you get out of this?' he said.

Charlie wasn't going to answer that. The power balance between them was too precarious as it was. Even if Monroe was her prisoner – even if she kept him on his knees twice a day – she had to remember who he was. Bass Monroe had been a professional soldier than she'd been alive, and while she was learning to shoot squirrels and forage for supplies he was running a Republic.

He didn't need to know that the few nights she slept soundly were after she came to him.

'There's bakery in Old City that was on your list,' she says instead, knowing he wouldn't resist the lure. 'The same three people go in every day and don't leave until evening, only no-one sees them inside. The owner hired a cart yesterday.'

He pressed a kiss to her throat, sucking the tender skin with wet lips and tongue. 'Who?'

She closed her eyes to concentrate. 'Graham Dell, Harriet Jameson and Sam Peirson,' she said. 'All Rebels, but none of them soldiers – they passed messages, provided shelter. Dell's a firebrand, I've met him before. He thinks we should have turned over control to a civilian government immediately.'

His hands slid up her ribs, callused fingers rough on her skin. She caught his wrists and pushed them down against the arm of the chair.

'I said kiss me,' she told him. 'Not touch me.'

He leant back into the chair, muscles tight under his skin although he wasn't fighting her. The candle-light played over the hard, sensual planes of his face.

'You won't let me kiss you,' he pointed out. 'Not on the lips.'

'You're not my boyfriend.'

'Of course, your hot young soldier,' he said, lip curling.

Charlie put her weight on his wrists, short nails digging into his skin, and leant in until her breasts touched his chest. She brushed her lips over his ear. 'I didn't say he was a soldier, and you'll do – and not do – whatever I tell you.'

She sat back, leaning against the desk, and buttoned her shirt up before tucking the tails into her waistband with irritated jabs of her fingers. Her body ached heavily with expectation, breasts feeling swollen and tender against her shirt. 

Monroe lifted his arms and rubbed the dented crescent marks on his wrist, watching her with hooded eyes.

'Do you know what they have planned?' he asked, just before Charlie would have had to admit she wanted to stay or actually leave. It annoyed her that he knew her that well/that she was that predictable. 

'No,' she admitted. 'I've had them all followed, but they go to the bakers and then home, smelling of banana and innocence. Maybe I'm wrong?'

'Banana?'

'Place stinks of it,' Charlie shrugged. 'She must have some contact in Georgia, I guess.'

'Home-made dynamite smells like bananas,' Monroe said. He rubbed his hand along his hip, where Charlie knew there was a clot of shiny scar tissue riding the hip-bone. 'If you have the ingredients, it's not hard to make.'

Shit. Charlie bolted to her feet and headed for the door. 'We have to raid them now...'

Monroe lunged over the desk and grabbed her arm, yanking her back. The ever-present niggle of fear under her ribcage ignited and she swung around, cocking her fist back.  
'Charlotte, I didn't get that scar because they blew the dynamite on purpose,' he said, keeping his voice quick and soft. 'You aren't Miles, try thinking.'

She twisted her arm, pulling against his grip. 'Let go.'

The fact she couldn't make him tightened in her chest, although if she yelled the room would be full of guards. That was reassuring enough to steady her heartbeat.

His jaw clenched and his hand tightened. 'Charlotte, Charlie,' he said. 'Whatever I am, I'm yours.'

That worried her more than his fingers digging into her wrist.

'Get off me,' she said tightly. 'Or you'll be too dead to worry, I'll make my excuses to Miles when he gets back.'

He let go and she left, slamming the door behind her. The guards didn't even look at her when she went past. It took her to her own doors before she could allow to herself that maybe Monroe was right. It took another restless night pacing her room before she was sure she could trust that feeling.

It was Monroe after all. If he thought it was a good idea, it was probably immoral.

*******************

Aster put the box down and tried to hide her trembling hands in her skirts. 

'Just some scones,' she said. 'I used a lot of cinnamon, but that's not a crime is it?'

Her laugh fell flat. The Matheson girl strode over, crowbar dangling from her hand, and wrenched at the lid. Panic turned to lead in Aster's bowels. The nails tore free, screeching out of the wood, and revealed a layer of fresh, spicy scones.

'See?' she said hopefully. 'Nothing. What did you expect to find?'

The Matheson girl chucked the scones aside, revealing the cheap, paper tubes stacked in the bottom. 

'That,' she said flatly, standing up. 'You were going to blow up a church.'

'For the rebellion,' Aster said. It sounded a lot more empty out here, with all those guns on her.

The girl gave her a disgusted look and turned to watch another soldier lope around the corner. 'Did you get the rest?'

'Yes, sir,' he said. 'What should be do with them.'

The girl's mouth twisted. 'Take them to the jail cells in the Hall,' she said, voice shaking just a little. 'I guess we still need them.'


	3. To Whom You Must Account

''You threw them in jail,' Nora said, slamming her hands on the desk hard enough to rattle the pencils. 'And not just any jail - his jail.' 

Charlie caught a pencil before it rolled off the table and twiddled it nervously between her fingers. She looked so young, even though Nora had been running with Miles and explosives at the same age.

'They were going to bomb a church,' Charlie said. 'How many soldiers do you think would have been there? Three, five?'

'They were trying to make a point,' Nora said. 'The church was a soft target-'

It was Charlie's turn to smack her hand against the desk. 'I know that,' she yelled. 'Do you think you're the only one Miles talked to? I just don't consider that an excuse.'

She had that face on, the one that talked Miles Matheson into crawling out of a bottle and sneaking into Philadelphia. It was the certainty that did it. People were full of doubts and second guesses and plan b's, so when you ran into someone with cast-iron certainty of purpose it was easy to get up by them. 

The problem was Charlie couldn't give the face to everyone in the Republic, and there were other people who were certain too. Turning away Nora walked over to the empty fireplace and stared at the cold, damp ashes. 

'You're right,' she said.

Charlie sighed in relief. 'Good. I don't want to fight with you Nora, not you, but-'

Nora's shoulders hunched, tension pulling them so tight it felt like they were going to break. 'Charlie, you're right, but it doesn't matter. You have to let them go. If you don't, the Rebels are going to disown you. You'll be just another warlord as far as they are concerned, and there's nothing I can do about it.'

She turned around to face Charlie's betrayed expression, and met...nothing. Charlie's usually expressive face was composed and watchful, big blue eyes still like pond water. Even her fingers had stopped moving, the twiddling pen dropped onto the blotter in front of her.

That wasn't Miles - Nora thought - he paced and muttered and glowered. It was Monroe who'd gone cold on you. The comparison chilled her.

'Charlie, don't look like that,' she begged. 'No one wants to do this.'

'They killed children,' Charlie said. 'I thought that's why we hated the militia.'

She wouldn't say it. Even angry, Charlie didn't have the mean core to say that. She didn't need to.

'It's politics,' she tried to explain. Even though she knew it wasn't going to work. Charlie didn't compromise much, she didn't see that sometimes you had to. 'The rebel leadership don't condone this either, but they can't to be seen to bow to you. They aren't the Matheson militia.'

'I never asked them to be,' Charlie said. 'I just wanted them to stop killing civilians.'

'They will - if you co-operate.'

'And if I don't? Whose side will you be on?'

Nora twisted the corner of her mouth. 'I'm always on your side, Charlie, but if you do this I'll go and get your uncle to talk some sense into you.'

Charlie nodded slowly, folding her lower lip between her teeth. She picked up the pencil and pulled a piece of paper over, scrawling her note with quick stabs of the lead. Nora allowed herself a sigh of relief, promising God to go to that church He'd spared and light a candle.

Blue eyes flicked up, regarding her through sandy lashes. 'You should start riding, Nora,' Charlie said. 'It's a long way to Georgia, and you'll want to get a head start.'

Nora tried to argue, but Charlie wasn't going to listen. In the end, she was right. It was a long way to Georgia, and Nora couldn't waste anytime. While Charlie passed her note to one of the servants, Nora headed for the stables.

*******

It was the first time in months that Monroe had been let out of his suite of rooms. You wouldn't know it to look at him. He sauntered into the office like it was still his and glanced around with curiosity.

'I like what you did with the place,' he said, mouth twitching. 'You've really put your stamp on it.'

The slight mockery made Charlie hunch her shoulders and scowl. She'd brought in three books and a jug of water to replace his old whiskey decanter. That was it. She'd meant to do more, but she'd not known where to start. At home she'd had a shared bed and a square of wall - it hadn't taken much decorating.

'You can go,' she told the guard.

He nodded politely and left. Monroe tilted his head and waited for the door to click before grinning at Charlie.

'I was right?' he said.

'You were right,' she admitted, after a second of hesitation. 'The dynamite, the instability, all of it. According to Aster, they would have blown the workshop if we'd raided it. More people would have died.'

He smirked and walked over, running his hand down her cheek to her neck. His thumb slid under her collar, touching the faint bruise he'd left. 'Does that mean I get to kiss you? As a reward?'

She pushed his hand away. 'We aren't doing that any more.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Why not?'

'What do you care?' Charlie shot back. 'It's not like you got anything out of it.'

A shadow of a smile ghosted over his mouth. 'You know that's not true.'

Charlie turned her back on him and walked over to the window, staring out over hte city. It wasn't her home and it didn't have good memories and she didn't like it very much, but Miles had asked her to keep it safe. She hadn't.

'Because I just judged Nora for behaving just like the militia used to,' she said flatly. 'I can hardly do the same, can I?'

In the reflection in the window, she saw him shrug and sit down in a gilt armed chair (it was from France, Aaron had told her before he left with Rachel, spluttering with indignation, and an antique) and raised his eyebrows. Monroe steepled his fingers and watched her thoughtfully.

'So why am I here?'

'I'm sending you to Miles,' she said. 'If you want to take anything with you, I'd pack it up tonight. You leave first thing in the morning.'

'Why?' he asked. 'I'm sure you don't want us catching up, “I've been keeping busy with poetry and your niece's pussy, Miles. You?”.'

She made her mouth relax before turning to look at him. 'He's been killing people,' she said flatly. 'You might want to phrase that differently. Or not. I'm sure you two can work it out.'

Monroe wasn't easy to read. Other than a moment of genuine surprise the first time she told him to get to his knees, she'd rarely been sure what was going on behind his face. So she was surprised to see open annoyance.

'So what?' he purred. 'We play your little no-fuck games until you think you don't need me any more, then you just pawn me off on Miles?'

'Why, did you expect me to ask you to marry me?' she asked, raising her eyebrows. 'I don't even like you.'

He dropped his chin and sneered. 'I assumed you'd realise you were too much of a child to run this city without me whispering in your ear.'

'You spent most of your time on your knees,' she snapped back, anger bubbling up her throat. 'So I wouldn't have to listen to you talk, and what I did listen to?'

She strode over to him and grabbed his shirt, yanking him forwards out of his slouch. 'It hasn't exactly helped. In a week I won't be running Philadelphia any more, and whoever takes my place will cut your throat without thinking twice. I promised Miles that wouldn't happen, unless you deserved it, so be glad I didn't just chuck you on horse.'

Monroe laughed in her face, eyes bright and dancing with mockery. 'Oh, I see,' he said, voice licking roughly at her temper. 'You're running away – like your Dad.'

She punched him, knuckles cracking into his face even before the fact she'd made a fist registered with her brain. Pain jabbed into her wrist and up into her elbow, and Monroe's head snapped back. The chair wobbled under him and he grabbed her jacket, taking her down with him in a tangle of limbs and the splinters of what Aaron had called a 'priceless' chair. 

Charlie jammed her forearm against his throat, pushing his head back so the blood ran up from his lip.

'You talk about my Dad again,' she snarled, swallowing hard before she could get the words out. Her nose was almost close enough to his to touch. 'I'll cut your fucking tongue out.'

He smirked, split lip gaping. 'But that's your favourite part.' He grabbed the back of her neck, fingers twisting in her hair, and pulled her down for a kiss. Their first kiss. His mouth was full of hot blood, the taste of it choking Charlie as his tongue tangled around hers, and his fingers dug into her neck. The roll of his hips pressed his erection against her, hard and insistent. What bothered Charlie was the hot coil of wanting that twisted through her.

Charlie shoved her forearm against his jaw and wrenched backwards, pulling her lips off his. She scrambled backwards and used the desk to pull herself to her feet. Her thighs ached as she pressed them tight together, her body shivering with violence and lust.

On the floor Monroe stretched and sat up, wiping the back of his hand over his lip. He looked at the blood and then up at her. 'Now that's my Charlotte,' he said. 'You don't roll over and show belly, you fight.'

He got onto his knees and crawled over to her, hands splaying over thighs. His thumbs traced the inseam of her pants, shivers tickling over her skin, and he nuzzled under her jacket to lay blood-sticky kisses on her stomach. Charlie bit her lip, sucking in a shocked breath, and dug her fingers into the edge of the desk. Her knuckles ached as they flexed.

'In a week, I won't have any one to fight with,' she said. 'When the rebels pull their support, I'll have – maybe – a squad left.'

His tongue dipped into her belly-button. 'You had less when you took me on. It was just you and Miles.'

And Nora and Aaron (and Maggie, which still stung), but there was no point in bringing them up. There were only so many people Monroe was willing to consider real – and fewer still he was willing to let beat him.

He rolled back onto the balls of his feet and stood up, lean thighs flexing. For the second time in a day, she could read his face. Smug. 

'I don't even care about being in charge,' she said.

'Liar.'

That could be true, she supposed. She reached up and cupped his face, leaving her fingerprints in the blood. Wanting him was dark and sick, half hate and half lust, but she did want him. 

'Take your cock out,' she told him. 'I want to see you come.'

His eyes flickered and he leant towards her lips. She let him come close enough she could feel his breath, then pulled back.'You already kissed me,' she said. 'Now you don't get to touch me again, unless I say.' 

His jaw clenched and his hands flexed against her thighs, squeezing too hard. 'If I don't listen, what are you going to do?' he asked. 'Scream? After you've gone to so much trouble to keep me alive and well?' 

'Try and see,' Charlie said, dabbing her tongue over her lower lip. Half the thrill was knowing that he didn't have to listen, that his leash was cobweb thin. 

Stepping backwards two long steps he dropped into a chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He tugged his trousers open and shoved them down his hips, eyes focused on Charlie as he spat in his hand and palmed his cock. It was already hard, the scrape of his palm tightening his mouth. He rubbed his thumb over the head, smearing the pale fluid. 

'Fast or slow?' he asked, letting his head fall back.

Charlie crossed her arms, trapping her fingers under her elbows, and tried her best copy of his empty face. 'Fast.'

His lids dipped. 'So kind,' he mocked.

He shifted, hips balancing on the edge of the chair, and slid his hand along his shaft in one long, slow stroke. His other hand reached down to cup his balls, nails scraping through the hair, as he leisurely pumped his cock. The curve of his mouth twisted intently. 

Charlie curled her fingers in, pressing against her ribs. 'I said fast.'

He rolled his head to look at her, blood still bright on his lips. 'Make me.'

Charlie could do that. She pushed off the desk and walked over to him, crouching down and running her hands up his thigh. He jerked as her fingers touching his thighs, and then gave a ragged laugh as she yanked his belt loose instead.

'You a virgin, Charlotte?' he asked with interest. 'Is that why you're scared to touch me.'

'No,' Charlie said, stepping behind him. She looped the belt around his neck, the ends wrapped around her fingers, and pulled it snug across his adam's apple. 'I just like giving you blue balls.'

He laughed and she tugged it just a little tighter, feeling the bite against her split knuckles. The width of his shoulders pressed against her thighs, his head against her stomach, and he made a choked, hungry sound. His hand moved faster, stroking the length of his cock with rough, impatient strokes. The muscles in his thighs tensed.

'What are you thinking about?' she asked, loosening the belt.

'You,' he said. 'Naked and under me, begging to be fucked. Bite marks on your breasts, my cock so...far...inside you that you can't talk.'

'How am I begging then?'

He snorted. 'My fantasy, Charlotte.'

She tightened the belt, making him grunt. 'My game, my rules.'

'Miles is there,' he said. 'Watching us, jacking off.'

Charlie couldn't help the little intake of breath, the image adding another layer of wrong-hot to the brew already coiling in her stomach. Her 'ew' was for forms sake, although she didn't know who she was fooling.

It wasn't that she wanted to fuck her uncle. The guy who'd bought her ice-cream and took her for a ride in his growling red car and made her laugh, did nothing for her. Except she just couldn't – quite – stitch together that Uncle and the Miles who'd killed for her.

And because this was already royally fucked up, and this was one thing she was pretty sure Monroe would keep to himself, she crouched down and pressed her lips to his ear.

'If he joined in, which of us would be fucked?' she asked.

Monroe gave a strangled groan and thrust his hips up into the cup of his hand, come spilling between his fingers. Charlie let the belt go slack around his neck, dangling over his shoulders, and stood up.

'Clean yourself up,' she told him. 'You're still leaving tomorrow.'

'Coward,' he told her, wiping his hand on the probably equally priceless chair (it looked like the other one). 

'Monster,' she responded. 'I've not forgotten what you did to my mom.'

He smiled at her. 'I never did this to her.'

Charlie didn't like to admit that hit home, but she had to look away. 'So it's a good thing I'm sending you away.'

It didn't take long for Monroe to put himself back together. 'You don't have to let them win,' he told her. 'I could help you.'

Her mouth twitched unhappily and she tugged at the ends of her hair, twisting them around her fingers. 'That's what I'm scared of.'


	4. Fastened to Their Throne

Rain sleeted down over Philadelphia, blowing in from the sea on a chill wind. Water bubbled up out of the gutters and ran along the walls and muddy puddles formed in the cracks and sinkholes of the courtyard.. Charlie splashed through them as she jogged to the gate and the escort waiting to take Monroe south. In the pre-dawn dimness men were anonymous in heavy slickers, brimmed hoods pulled down over their eyes. 

Monroe had pushed his hood back, letting the rain plaster his curls to his skull, and was ostentatiously shackled. Heavy cuffs bound his hands and ankles, the heavy chains rattling as he moved. He gave Charlie a mocking nod as she joined them, his lip scabbed and swollen. 

'Charlotte,' he said. 'Come to wave me off?'

Charlie supposed she was. There wasn't really any other reason for her to be down here. The men had their orders and other than the miserable looking stable-hands mucking out stalls, there was no one to see it. She wasn't sure why it mattered to her that she watch him leave – to be honest, she didn't want to know – but it did.

Maybe it was just because once he was gone, she'd be alone. Sad as it was that Sebastian Monroe was her last ally.

'I've sent word to my Uncle to expect you,' she told Sergeant Russell – identifiable even under his hood by the ragged scar that cut through his lips. It probably wasn't necessary, Russell's loyalty was dubious because of his ex-Militia loyalties, not because he was a rebel, but she tilted her head towards Monroe. 'He's expecting him too. In more or less one piece.'

Randall pushed his hood back with his thumb, revealing a battered face and sharp, green eyes. 'I've no bone to pick with General Monroe,' he said. 'Won't let anyone else pick theirs with him either.'

One of the escort turned his head and spat noisily. 

'Good,' Charlie said, staring at the man. 'Nobody wants to piss off Miles Matheson do they? We've all heard the stories.'

She still hadn't. Someone would tell her, if she asked. Monroe would have, and thought it was campfire tales of the good old days. It wouldn't make a difference either, she didn't think there was anything Miles could do she couldn't find an excuse for. Thing was, if Miles wanted her to know he'd have told her himself. 

Sometimes, though, she was curious. They must have been really good stories, because they made the escort blanch and shift nervously.

A tight, lopsided tugged at one corner of Randall's mouth. 'If anyone hasn't, I'll remind them on the way.'

Charlie turned to look at Monroe, the familiar knot of lust/hate/fear/respect pushing up under her breastbone till it made her breathless. None of that – of sweat and her hand twisted in his hair and the tightrope of taking good advice from a bad man – was for public consumption. 

'Tell Uncle Miles-' she started and stopped, too many words trying to get out of her mouth. 'Tell him I tried my best?'  
Rain dripped from Monroe's hair as he shook his head. 'That's not true though, Charlotte. Otherwise, you'd have accepted my offer.'

'He wouldn't want that.'

'Ah,' he said, rolling the word over his tongue. 'And we can't have Uncle Miles disappointed in us, can we?'

Charlie controlled her anger. 'If you want to be gagged on the ride south, Mr Monroe, keep running your mouth.'

His eyes hooded briefly at her stripping his title, but his smile didn't waver. 'You've never complained about my mouth before, Charlotte.'

'My dad raised me to be polite to my elders,' she said sweetly. The conversation was getting out of hand, so she turned back to Russell. 'You better go. There are plenty of people who want him dead.'

He saluted her and turned to bark orders, getting his men horsed and unhooking Monroe's leg shackles so he could mount the solid looking bay they'd given him. Monroe didn't look back as they headed out the gates. No reason he should, Charlie reminded herself. Ahead was where his favourite Matheson was. She'd been surprised he'd argued about going at all. 

Part of her – most of her – wished she could go with them, but Philadelphia was her responsibility. Despite what Monroe thought, she wasn't going to run away from that. She wiped her face on her sleeve and turned to head back inside. 

The puddles in the middle of the courtyard had spilled into one huge puddle. Charlie hopped across the middle of it to avoid soaking her feet. The arrow caught her in the shoulder instead of through the throat, punching through her skin just above her collarbone. It didn't hurt, but the impact of it knocked her off her feet. She landed with a splash in the puddle, cold water soaking her to the skin on one side and blood hot on the other. It took a second for her to catch her breath and realise someone had just tried to kill her.

And failed, which meant she needed to get up. Charlie scrabbled up to her knees, cradling her arm across her chest, and looked around frantically. The stable-hands weren't looking so miserable anyone. One, all ginger hair and bones, was struggling with a soaked and soiled cross-bow – from the look of it he'd smuggled it in hidden under the manure. Another, receding hairline and heavy beard, ran towards her with knives glittering in his hands.

The rest were pulling weapons from under their clothes or out of stalls. This had been planned, and by someone who knew the orders given regarding Monroe's departure.

Charlie screamed for help and grabbed for her sword, yanking it ungracefully from the scabbard. Guards came running out into the courtyard, but the rest of the rebels were between them and Charlie.

Baldy swing a knife-filled fist at her face. Charlie blocked the first blow, catching the knife against her sword, but had to lurch to the side to dodge the stab to her stomach. Her shoulder kept throwing her off-balance. It didn't hurt, but it felt heavy as lead.

'Matheson bitch,' Baldy spat, his hands weaving flickering patterns in the air. 'We should never have trusted you.'

She backed up, feet splashing through the water, and hung onto her sword. Sweat and blood soaked her sides. 'No, not when you're bombing churches,' she agreed. 

Hatred twisted his mouth and he closed the gap between them, lighter on his feet than she'd expect looking at him. Charlie bit her cheek and stared at his hand, trying to catch his move before he made it. He was too quick. The edge of a knife caught Charlie's hand, scoring a painless line of heat from knuckle to wrist, and a couple of seconds later the other slipped through her guard to jab her thigh. That was how a knife-fighter wins, Miles had said, wearing you down till you fell over. 

This guy wouldn't even have to do that, she realised as she glanced over at ginger, just keep her busy till his friend cocked the bow. Charlie clenched her jaw. If she was going to die, she wasn't going to be the only one bloody. She was a Matheson after all – she wanted Miles to be proud of her. 

Charlie lunged forward and slashed Baldy's face, opening a wet slice of flesh from his forehead to the opposite cheekbone. Blood sluiced down his face and bubbled in the thick nick she'd opened in his nose. He made a high-pitched, strangled noise and dove at her, taking her down with a bone-rattling thud. Dropping one of his knives he grabbed the arrow sticking out of her shoulder and wrenched, making her scream as the heavy weight turned into raw, scraping pain.

'The Rebels bow to no-one,' he spat through bloody teeth, laying the knife against her throat.

Then his head exploded, blood and brains and bone spraying out of his ear. His body went limp on top of Charlie, squashing her for a second, then was yanked off. Monroe, slicker torn and a bruise swelling on his forehead to challenge his swollen lip, tossed Baldy aside and dropped to his knee next to her. His eyes flickered from the arrow to her thigh and his mouth twisted.

'Can you stand?' he asked.

'I'm all right,' she assured him. 'It doesn't hurt.'

He hooked his arm under her shoulders and hauled her up. 'It will.'

She dug her fingers into his arm, her legs feeling unattached under her. Like she might actually fall off them. The rebels were split now, half facing the guards and half facing Monroe and his escort – who'd been armed with guns. 

'Down with the Republic!' a woman yelled, cocking an arm back. She threw a burning bottle at the guards and it splashed fire as it hit the ground. 'And to hell with your Generals!'

Someone screamed, a high, hurt animal sound, and the rebels charged at the escort. Charlie got shoved behind Monroe who shot two rebels and then ducked down to grab her sword. He gutted a woman with blistered hands, cutting her throat in a backhand slash to stop her screaming, and ran a grim-faced grey haired man through. 

The rest of the escort held their ground and then the guard were there, stamping through the flames, to cut down the rest. A couple of the rebels got away, but most ended up dead on the ground, adding their blood to the puddles. Monroe snapped orders in a cold, crisp voice that everyone obeyed automatically.

Charlie supposed she should put a stop to that, but she was actually starting to hurt and staying on her feet was taking most of her attention. Maybe if she just...

******

Waking up involved moving and moving made everything hurt in a number of different and varied ways. Her shoulder was packed with hot coals and wires of pain twinged down into her ribs every time she moved. Meanwhile her thigh felt like an over-filled hot water bottle, throbbing and tight, and her knees felt raw and itchy. Charlie groaned, the sounds scratching at her dry throat, and tried to lie still. That hurt too. 

A cool hand touched her forehead. 'Just sit up, Charlotte. Get it over with,' Monroe said. She opened her eyes and glanced around, taking in the neat, bare walls of her room and Monroe – unshackled – sitting on her bed.

'What happened?' she asked, gritting her teeth and getting her elbow under her as a lever. 'The rebels.'

Monroe held out a glass. It was full of whisky. She sniffed and grimaced as her nose hairs crisped, pushing it back at him.

'Drink it,' he told her. 'You'll need it.'

Charlie managed to sit up, propped awkwardly against pillows and headboard, and breathlessly considered how badly it hurt. She took the glass with her free hand. 

'How long?' she asked.

'A day,' he said. She pulled a dismayed face. 'The surgeon knocked you out to get the arrow out of your shoulder. You're lucky, nothing broken.'

Charlie didn't feel lucky, and the whisky tasted like burnt wood and gasoline. After a sip she handed it back to Monroe.

'Why are you here?' she asked, sorting the questions in her head in order of importance. 'You came back?'

He stroked her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. 'I'd never let someone else hurt you, Charlotte.'

She twitched – and winced when that hurt – at the implicit threat in that statement. Suspicion tugged at her and she raised her voice. 'Guards?'

The door opened and Russell looked in, his battered face lightening in relief when he saw her sitting up. 'You're up,' he said. 'Are you all right.'

'I don't know,' Charlie said. She tilted her head at Monroe. 'What if I told you to shoot him?'

'Are you telling me that?' Russell asked, face quiet as he rested his hand on his gun.

'I want to know if it's an option,' Charlie said.

Russell gave Monroe an apologetic look, but nodded. 'You're in command. If you want me to execute a prisoner...'

Monroe chuckled like he knew Charlie wouldn't do it. Impressive, since Charlie wasn't sure whether or not she'd do it. After a second though, she shook her head. 

'No,' she said. 'Don't. You can go.'

'I'll let the men know you're awake,' Russell said. His face softened, looking almost gentle. 'We've been worried.'

He disappeared, closing the door with a click, and Charlie gave a bitter chuckle. 'Three quarters of the men are going to desert when the Rebels pull support officially,' she said. 'And apparently the last quarter still answer to you.'

Monroe handed her the glass of whiskey again. It tasted better this time. 'You might be surprised,' he said. 'Soldiers don't like assassins, much, and you looked very brave and pretty in the court-yard. Quite the defiant princess – much more appealing than a bunch of dusty old men and their ideas.'

'You're hardly a dusty old man,' Charlie said tiredly. 'And they're my dusty old ideas too. Remember?'

'Still?' Monroe asked. He touched her collarbone and slid his hand down, stroking the curve of her breast and dip of her waist, to her heavily bandaged thigh. 'After what happened? They tried to have you killed.'

Charlie shifted, and took another drink. 'A dissident faction...'

He shook his head. 'I was there Charlie, that was an organised attack with good info. And it was against you, not me. If they can pull that off, then they aren't a small faction anymore. They're in charge.'

The familiar touch made Charlie's body tingle half-heartedly – although not nearly enough to distract her from hurting. Maybe the fight had knocked the twisted out of her.

'It doesn't matter one way or the other,' she said, lifting the glass and realising she'd finished the whiskey. She stretched over, sweating, and set it on the bedside table. 'Even if only half the men leave...we can't put down an open rebellion.'

It sounded like an innocent statement, almost casual, but they both knew Monroe had already offered his help. She waited, but he just picked up her hand kissed her knuckles. Then he bit her, a small pain that made her gasp in the way hurting all over didn't.

'Ask,' he told her, cradling her hand against his cheek. His eyes were intent, hungry, as he looked at her. 'You owe me that, Charlotte. Ask me for help. Tell me you need me.'

'No,' she said. 'I don't need you.'

His fingers clenched around her hand, squeezing the bones together until Charlie had to bit her tongue to keep from yelping. 'This isn't a game where I pretend you can put me on my knees,' he said. 'The rebels aren't going to put you in a nice cell, Charlie. They want you dead and that means they want Miles dead too. You know what he'd do – what he'd become – if anything happened to you.'

'Then maybe you should have kept riding,' Charlie said. 'You could have got your General back.'

A cold smile sliced over his face. 'I thought about it.'

'But you didn't, you came back,' Charlie said. 'I think maybe you're the one who needs me.'

His mouth twisted, something dark and loathing darting through his eyes, and Charlie realised that he knew that already. That was why it wouldn't work. Their...game...needed balance, power plays and trades. Monroe couldn't abide it otherwise, being the one who needed.

'Then we'll die together.' He let go of her hand and stood up, walking over to the table to pour himself a glass of whisky. Turning around he toasted her sardonically. 'Miles will burn the Republic in our memory. It will be glorious.'

Charlie sighed and held her hand out, palm up and fingers loose. 'I don't have another lover,' she said. 'Only you.'

'I assumed that from the room,' Monroe said, giving the small room and narrow bed a dismissive look. He drank his whisky. 'Do you think I care?'

'You know you do,' Charlie said irritably. Her hand trembled, the ache in her other shoulder crawling across to gnaw at her arm. She had to change the rules of this game on the fly without losing, when she barely got how it worked anyhow. So she guessed and told the truth. 'I need your help. I want you. And my arm is really sore, so...'

It took a second, but she must have bent enough (hopefully not too much) because he tossed the whisky back and came over to the bed. He twisted his fingers through hers – an odd, inappropriate sweetness pinching Charlie's heart – and sat down next to her. 

'I'll give you Jeremy,' he said. Charlie's eyes widened. Baker and the militia still held the northern territories of the Republic, including a number of arms stockpiles. 'In return for some...concessions.'

'More?' she asked sourly.

He smiled and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. 'Political ones. Pardons for any supposed crimes committed under my command – including me – and an alliance.'

'People wouldn't stand for it.'

Monroe shrugged. 'You might be surprised. Things haven't been as sweetness and light under the rebels as they promised, and they are clearly the ones that severed ties. You are just doing what you have to in order to protect your people. It'll sell, because it's true.'

Maybe. Charlie wasn't as sure as Monroe, but what other choice did she have? She'd been willing to accept getting dethroned by the rebels, and probably put under house arrest for the duration, but she didn't want to die. 

'Are you in contact with Baker?' she asked, trying to keep a niggle of suspicion out of her voice.

It probably didn't work, because Monroe looked amused. 'I can be,' he said. 'We made arrangements before our...situation...changed. There's a dead drop I can send messages too, and people who can contact him.'

Charlie swallowed. 'Do it. I'll give you the pardons, although the rebels won't consider that binding.'

A cruel, eager smile tugged at the corner of Monroe's mouth. 'They won't be a problem.'

Charlie squeezed his hand. 'I can't promise Miles will either.'

Monroe shrugged that off. 'He'll come to terms.'

'I want one more thing though,' Charlie said, tilting her head. 'Kiss me?'

It was a request, not an order. If she had to justify it Charlie could, her wanting him was part of the rules of their new game. Mostly though, she just wanted him to kiss her without it being part of any thing else. A simple kiss.

Monroe went still and then shifted closer, his free hand finding the curve of her hip gently. He was careful of her injuries, gentle, as he pressed his mouth against hers. It was Charlie who deepened the kiss, nipping his lower lip and dipping her tongue into his mouth. Monroe's control held longer than she'd have liked and then he groaned against her, and pressed her back into the pillows. 

His mouth was hungry, sucking and tugging, and Charlie wanted that. She kissed back fiercely, the flare of lust distracting her from everything else. Until Monroe shifted the wrong way and her shoulder took more weight than it could bear – like hot coals grinding together. She pushed him away and shoved her fist against her mouth, stifling her yelp. 

It took a minute for the pain to drop back to something she could think through. Monroe was stroking her hair. He waited until she dropped her hand from her mouth, teeth marks in her knuckles, and he brushed a chaste, careful kiss over her bruised lips.

'Later,' he promised her.


End file.
